The Daughter of the Consulting Detective
by Meilodi
Summary: My name is Sophia Holmes, and I'm the daughter of the world's only consulting detective, and this is my story, well I say my story, it's actually my father me, and John Watson's. Teenage daughter of Sherlock. Mild swearing.


**The Daughter of the Consulting Detective**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, it's the best sound I've heard all day long. I shouldered my bag and strode out the classroom, I managed to make it to the school gate before someone stops me to "socialize."

"Hey, Soph!"

I turned but didn't answer, it's Cassie, she likes me for some weird reason, she thinks that my rudeness and cleverness is "sexy" and that my coldness and general disinterest in social situations "mysterious."

"Do you wanna go to that party today?"

"Sorry, I've got things to do. I just moved, remember?" I smiled apologetically, a skill I had perfected long ago, she smiled back and walked away, no doubt looking for another prey to go to the party with.

I breathed out a sign of relief and continued walking, but was stopped yet again.

"Sophia!" I turned to look at the guy who dares disturb me and immediately rolled my eyes. A group of boys were standing around another boy, punching at him playfully and nudging at me, the boy was called Matt. It was common knowledge in the school that he fancies me. I sent them a cold glare and walked away, hearing the ohh's and ahh's behind me. I shrugged off my blazer as I crossed over school grounds. My uncle, otherwise known as the British Government, had insisted I go to a fancy private school instead of a public one. My father did not see any disadvantages to the solution, and I honestly could not care less, so I'm studying the poshest school in London on a "scholarship."

I opened the wooden door with the brass numbers "221B" and bounded up the stairs, My father was standing around, tossing some folders into a box and slamming the swiss army knife into a pile of envelopes, that was quite normal, what struck me as abnormal is another man standing beside him, peering curiously at the skull. He turned around when he heard me come in, he was a member of the army with a psychosomatic limp.

"Oh, may I introduce my daughter, Sophia Holmes." Dad says, gesturing to me absentmindedly,

"John Watson." The man says, and shook my hand, "Pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure's mine." I said, smiling at him, "Umm, could you excuse me for a second, I want a word with my father."

I pulled Dad away without waiting for a reply and we stood on the porch,

"Who is this John Watson, are you seriously thinking about your teenage daughter sharing a flat with an ex-soldier?" I hissed at him,

"He's an ex-army doctor," He said calmly, "And you know we won't be able to afford the flat on our own."

I glared at him, and he looked back at me passively. See, I take after my father on quite a lot of things, sarcasm, wit, deduction skills amongst others, I'm just not as good at deduction skills than him, the one thing I'm better at than him is people skills. I happen to know when I've offended someone, I just generally don't care.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson entered the flat and he followed her in, so naturally I had to follow him in. Dr. Watson was still examining the skull with interest,

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."  
I snorted into my tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought up, my father, Sherlock Holmes, a boyfriend? Hasn't Mrs. Hudson known Dad for long enough to know that the number of acquaintances he has could be counted with one hand.

"Of course we'll be needing two." Dr. Watson says, frowning, that poor man,

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here." Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you'll never give up, will you? "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

Dr. Watson glances at Dad expectantly, probably waiting for him to deny their relationship, but he did not seem to notice, I happen to know that he does not care.

"So, Dr. Watson?" I decided to ease the awkwardness, or at least attempt to do so,

"John, please." He said, turning to me, I raised my eyebrows, what kind of man wants to be called John by a 16-year-old? To be honest, I only called him Dr. Watson because it's his first day, I start to call people by their first names by the second day, I did not like to be treated like a child.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" I inquired.

"Um... Afghanistan." He answered, a little bewildered, "Your father asked the same question."

"Oh, did he now?" I pretended to be surprised, "What do you think of the flat?"

"Oh, it's quite nice. Quite nice." He mused over it, then turned to Dad, "I looked you up on the internet last night."

Oh, I've got to hear this.

"Anything interesting?" Dad turned around to face him,

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction."

"What did you think?" He said, smiling proudly, which is one of the smiles he is capable of, the others being fake  
smiles, smug smiles, menacing smiles, there's-been-a-murder smile, and the occasional happiness smiles.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb." He said doubtfully, Dad looks a little hurt,

"Yeah. And we can read your military career from your face and your leg." I said, stepping in. If he was going to be like the other guys and insult my father, he has to come through me first.

Dad smiled, "And I can see your brother's drinking habits from your mobile phone."

"How?" John turned to me, then looked back to Dad. He smiled mysteriously and turned away, John turned to me then, expecting an explanation, but I looked in my tea mug and took a sip.

"What about those suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." Mrs. Hudson walked in, clutching the newspaper. I took it from her and glanced at it,

"Four." Dad says, looking out the window, "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" I inquired, and the answer came through the door. D.I. Lestrade, our dear old friend, came into the living room.

"Hey Sophia," He acknowledged me, he absolutely adores me for unfathomable reasons.

"Where?" Dad asked,

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different.'

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?" I looked up, and I knew Dad's next question,

"Who's on forensics?" Ding ding ding, right answer.

"Anderson."

"Anderson won't work with me." Dad grimaced, the two absolutely loathed each other.

"I need an assistant."

"You have Sophia." Lestrade pointed out.

Excuse me, I am not my father's assistant!

"I am not yours or anyone's assistant." I said bluntly.

"Will you come?" Lestrade chose to ignore me, a wise choice, really.

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind." I could almost hear the excitement bubbling in Dad's body, and mine also.

"Thank you." Lestrade signed in relief, and walked out the door.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" Dad says, jumping up happily like a little kid. I knew that I was the picture of calmness, well I wasn't, I must've a huge grin across my face, but I was equally as excited as my Dad.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food, come on, Sophia!"

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up! Sophia, Hurry!" He said rapidly and dashed out the door, I followed, pulling on my coat and throwing the newspaper on the table, as well as setting down my mug.

Drat, I haven't changed out of my uniform yet.

Dad stopped in front of the door abruptly when the sound of John's angry voice echoed down to the front door,

"Damn my leg!"

I snapped my head and looked up, Dad seems to think to himself for a moment and went back upstairs. A moment later, Dad came back downstairs, but this time with John.  
I raised an eyebrow at Dad, but he ignored me and hailed a cab.

"Okay, you've got questions." I said, unable to continue watching John glance nervously at Dad, who was staring intently on his phone, I turned slightly so I was facing John,

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene." I said simply, secretly enjoying John's uncomfortableness, "Next."

"Okay, who are you? What do you do?" John asked, then reconsidered, "What does your father do and who is your father?"

"What do you think?" Dad had finally lowered his phone, and looked in at our conversation with interest,

"I'd say private detective..." John said hesitantly,

"But?" I prompted.

"The police don't go to private detectives."

"He is a consulting detective, only one in the world. He invented the job." I said, "And in answer to your previous question, I am the daughter of the world's only consulting detective."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I am this man's daughter." I said, hiding a smile.

"No, not that." John clarified, he could tell that I was teasing him, though, "What does a consulting detective mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is usually the case, they come to Dad and I."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Dad threw him one of his icy looks.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw." Dad said, then looked at me pointedly.

"Let me guess... Haircut?" I eyed John carefully, "And...the posture?"

"Yes, and when you entered the lab, you said 'bit different from my day,' so trained at Barts, Army doctor, obviously. Your face is tanned, but not above the wrist. You've been abroad by not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like yo've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq."

Dad's speech has the same affect on everyone, doubt, a very very brief amazement, then anger.

"You said I had a therapist." Here we are, doubt.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist." I pointed out.

"Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?"

"Your phone." Dad held out his hand and John handed him his phone. Dad inspected it then handed it to me, "Care to make a deduction, Sophia?"

"With pleasure." I took the phone and flipped it over, I inspected the phone carefully, reading between the lines.

"Well, it's expensive, you're looking for a flatshare, won't waste your money, so it's a gift." I paused and looked at John, who was eyeing the phone in my hand curiously, "Scratches. A lot of scratches. The man beside me would not treat his one luxury item like this, so it's a hand-me-down. Then the engraving."

"Harry Watson, from Clara, xxx." John recited.

"Harry Watson, a family member who's given you his old phone. Bit too young a phone for a father, could be a cousin, but you can't find a place to live, so unlikely you've got an extended family, at least not one close enough to give you his phone, so brother. Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses, romantic attachment, expensive phone so wife, not girlfriend. The model is only six months old, marriage in trouble then. If she'd left him, he would've kept it, sentiments, but he wanted to get rid of it, he left her." I took a breath, and looked up to see John's shock face and Dad's proud smile, "He gave the phone to you, he wants to keep in touch. You're looking for a place to live, but you're not going to your brother, you've got problems with him. Probably you liked his wife?"

"No, you don't like his drinking." Dad said, and took the phone from my hands.

"The drinking?" John asked, "How can you know that?"

"Power connection, tiny scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes in to plug it in to charge but his hands were shaking..."

"Never see a sober man's phone with them, never see a drunk's without them." I continued. Dad smirked and gave John his phone back.

"You were right." I said, smirking,

"I was right, right about what?" There, brief amazement.

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Both me and Dad tensed as we waited for the next reaction, anger.

"That...was amazing." John said. We both froze, Dad turned his head around and looked at John, I looked at the two of them.

"Do you think so?" Dad asked,

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary." I could feel a huge grin spreading across my face, and I looked at Dad.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off!" I said, and laughed. John joined in briefly, Dad grinned and looked out the window.

* * *

**What do you think? REVIEW!**


End file.
